


Mr. Cowper's Literary Magazine

by SpaceVinci



Series: King's High School [2]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Lit Mag, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:49:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceVinci/pseuds/SpaceVinci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of works entered to King's High School's Literary Magazine, supervised by Mr. William Cowper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crushing on He-Man

Crushing on He-Man  
By Anonymous

 

"Boys don't play with Barbie dolls."

My father told me this when I was five years old,  
Enchanted by the sparkles and colors,  
And reaching for the wrong toy on the shelf.  
I didn't know any better then,  
Didn't know that at five years old  
Boys don't play with Barbie dolls.

I didn't want Barbie dolls for long, anyway.  
Soon I learned to play with He-Man  
And with super hero action figures.  
My fascination with Barbie's brightness  
Quickly gave way to a love of muscles  
And a toned male form.

"Boys play with other little boys."

My teacher told me this when I was eight years old,  
The only kid in my class not deathly afraid of cooties,  
Not worried that extended exposure to females  
Would induce some horrible, mortifying illness.  
I was shooed away from dress up games  
Until they played house and needed someone to be Father.

I was more comfortable with the boys, anyhow,  
Much more content with testosterone than estrogen.  
I was happy to run till I could run no longer  
And collapse in a heap of squiggly arms and legs  
When we were all far too tired  
To continue pretending we were on some grand adventure.

"Why don't you get a girlfriend already?"

I can't count the number of times I've been asked this,  
And I hate to break it to everyone, but it's not happening.  
After years of forcing me to play with half-naked plastic men  
And pushing me away from female-interaction,  
I can't honestly pretend to know  
How exactly you thought I'd end up.

But boys see themselves as He-Man.  
Boys don't envision themselves in He-Man's arms.  
Boys chase skirts, not each other.  
And when a girl comes knocking for a boy to play Father,  
Boys don't say they'd be happy to,  
As long as they get to marry Daddy.

So what does that make me?  
Just what you always taught me.

Because boys don't play with Barbie dolls.


	2. There is Something Wrong with the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early Update... BECAUSE I GET TO GO SEE A BROADWAY SHOW TOMORROW!  
> Sadly, it's not Hamilton. But still, YAY!

There is Something Wrong with the World  
By Thomas D.

 

There is something wrong with the world  
When you can't help but smile  
At the pictures of beautiful black people,  
Caption: #blackoutday,  
Because they add a temporary pretense  
Of peace.  
Because when you see these pictures,  
Caption: "Yas girl! Slay!",  
You start to wish you could pretend  
It makes up for the next picture,  
Caption: a name,  
You don't know what name.  
They all blur together.  
But there was a living child,  
And then there was not one.  
There was a police official,  
And there continued to be one,  
There continued to be many.  
But you can't dwell on it.  
You reblog to alert others  
Of a name you no longer remember.  
Days later you see a longer post  
Of a cheerful man  
And his beautiful wife,  
Both with dark complexions.  
In the next picture you see them  
Holding their gorgeous daughter.  
You should be happy,  
But instead you pray.  
You pray that they live to see the end  
Of the photoset.  
You pray that this is not one of those pictures,  
Caption: died on x date.  
They are still smiling in the end.  
There is no death date.  
You quickly move on,  
Quickly scroll past.  
Reblog.  
Caption.  
Like.  
Pray.  
There is something wrong with the world.


	3. Silhouette

Silhouette  
By Phillis W.

 

I'll tell the tale of a silhouette  
Her life, in shadows, ne'er arose  
A lone, dark figure, lined in light  
And where she came from, no one knows

She stood alone in form and thought  
As if a pondering painter froze  
A moment's solidarity  
The life behind which, no one knows

Her face, in memory, fades to dark  
I can't recall, as on time flows  
Her gestures, feelings, she becomes  
A blanketed slate that no one knows

So tell the tale of a silhouette  
Whose face, in shadows, rarely shows  
The empty streets and tear-streaked cheeks  
She cries alone, and no one knows


	4. Cyborgs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. Wednesday kind of didn't exist for me.

Cyborgs  
By J. Barlow

 

We are the future of the human race  
Wires for veins  
And metal brains  
Buttons for eyes  
And copper thighs  
We are the future of the human race

We are the labor of the human race  
Springs and coils  
Working its toils  
Unsleeping, unblinking  
Constantly thinking  
We are the labor of the human race

We are the fiction of the human race  
Mechanical hearts  
And synthetic arts  
Senses infrared  
And bodies repaired  
We are the fiction of the human race

We are the future of the human race   
Wires for veins  
And metal brains  
Buttons for eyes  
And copper thighs  
We are the future of the human race


	5. Thorns

Thorns  
By Angelica S.

 

He tore off all her petals  
But then when his fit was through  
He picked them up to wipe his tears  
And whispered, "I love you."

He plucked off every single leaf  
Into the wind they blew  
And he stripped her of her beauty  
But assured her, "I love you."

He cast her out into the cold  
And left her numb and blue  
But he burst right back and slammed the door  
And pleaded, "I love you."

But she'd claimed her leaves and petals  
And she'd brightened up her hue  
So as she finally turned to leave  
She answered him, "I love me, too."


	6. Bookstore Confession

Bookstore Confession  
By Sarah P.

 

Pass the American History,  
Sharp 180° turn,  
Descend the stairs.  
Pass the Literature,  
Find the back,  
Locate the door.  
Down a hallway,  
Books from the 18th and 19th centuries  
In glass cases,  
200 dollars or more.  
Pass the art displays,  
Taken, reserved, not for sale.  
Pass the encyclopedias,  
Shelves of Britannia.  
Pass the hidden room of economic studies.  
Sociology.  
Gender studies.

Phycology section.

50% off bookshelf.  
See what you like.  
Nothing.  
Another at the other end.  
Nothing.  
Here,  
In between.  
A shelf full,  
Stacked to the ceiling.  
Take what you like.  
"Something on positivity?"  
See what you can find.

Time passes.

I look at an array  
Of interesting titles  
On the Gender Studies shelf.  
"This is boring for you, isn't it?"  
Yes.  
Yes, a bit.  
The titles pass through my mind,  
But I do not particularly care about them.

Time passes.

I look over to you.  
There is a pile of two books  
By your feet.  
"How much is each on average?"  
It varies.  
I turn back to my shelf.  
A title catches my eye.  
Something about gays and lesbians.  
I read you the title.  
"Do you know anyone who's gay?"  
A moment's argument passes through my mind.  
Well,  
I'm bisexual.

Why did I tell you that?  
It must be because you're a therapist,  
And you give off the air  
That people can tell you things.  
I decide this in the eternal second  
It takes you to respond.

"Since when?"

Excuse me?  
Yes, I woke up yesterday  
And decided to like two genders.  
What do you mean,  
'Since when'?

Well, I suppose I've always been one.  
I sense that the answer doesn't satisfy you.  
I had a crush on a girl  
At the beginning of the school year.

You nod.  
"Do your parents know?"  
Yes.  
Yes, they know.  
They are fine with it.

Time passes.

"So how did you know  
That you were bisexual,  
And not just gay?"  
Well,  
I'd had crushes on guys before.  
Again, you nod,  
Return to the shelf.

Time passes.

"Are your parents  
Okay with it?"  
I believe I have already told you the answer.  
"What did your mom say?"  
How oddly specific.  
I do not quite remember.  
My dad said 'pass the mio',  
Then told me to remember that he had said that.  
You return to the shelf.

Time passes.

"So—"  
I pretend to be busy with a book.  
I read the title to you.  
Something about anti-bullying.  
"How much?"  
Five dollars.  
"Add it to the pile."  
I do.  
"Is she your girlfriend?"  
What?  
Oh.  
No.  
No, we're just friends.  
It wouldn't have worked out.

You seem to have forgotten  
Your first question.  
Good.

"So."  
For the love of god, woman, stop.  
"How did you know that you were bisexual,"  
We've been over this.  
"And not just confused?"

I stop.

Excuse me?

How did I know  
That I wasn't  
'Confused'?

Because I really had a crush on her.  
Because I really had a crush  
On the others, too.

How did you know  
When you dated your husband  
That you were heterosexual,  
And not just 'confused'?  
Bisexual is a sexuality onto itself,  
Not a hormonal mixture  
Of lust and attraction.  
How dare you?  
Are you just trying to understand?  
Do you honestly not appreciate  
What it takes for me to tell people?  
Do you not understand  
That you were lucky  
To have a moment of my trust?  
No,  
No I am not confused.  
I am appalled.  
But this disgust goes unspoken.

I think you nod again.  
"I know people who are gay.  
Not in my work,  
Just people."  
I nod.  
I should go.

Down the hallways,  
Up the stairs,  
Back to the balcony  
With my hot chocolate, tissues, and book,  
Wondering all the way  
What possessed me to tell you.


	7. Tea (the Breakup)

Tea (The Breakup)  
By Francis K.

 

"There's something I need to tell you.  
I'd rather say it face to face."

I asked to come over,  
And you offered to make me tea;  
You did everything right, steeping in just fine  
Before adding the perfect amount of sugar.

When first I called, all that while ago,  
I wanted the tea; I like tea.  
But I told you what I needed to,  
That I am a screaming kettle,  
Burning and bubbling,  
Holding in something  
That should be perfect,  
Except that I don't want it.

An empty kettle still holds heat.  
We sat in smoky silence as we realized  
I was not going to drink the tea.

I should have told you not to make it.  
I used to like tea more.

I left you to clean it up alone.


	8. Assurance

Assurance  
By George Crabbe

 

I promise you, I’m fine.  
These characters in my head  
Scream out their stories,  
Their plights,  
Their foreign emotions,  
And I am obliged to record them.  
So I promise you, I’m fine.  
This aching in my soul  
Is an irritation,  
Is my soul chafing against  
Fifty others trapped around it.  
I seem to collect them like seashells.  
I find a soul I like,  
An emotion,  
A skill,  
And I scoop it up  
And bring it home.  
I become the secretary,  
The correspondent,  
The diplomat  
Of the orphaned voices  
That swear me to secrecy.  
So really, I’m fine.  
They’re not.  
I don’t know how to help them.  
They don’t want to be helped.  
So I pass on their message  
So that they can retreat once more  
Into the recesses of my mind  
Leaving an empty,  
Chafing space,  
But barely time enough to heal  
Before they come around screeching again  
And my own emotions are forced over,  
And my hand and mind become theirs,  
And the world looks on with worry,  
And I have to say  
It’s not me.  
Really.  
I’m fine.


	9. The Story of Life

The Story of Life  
By Sarah P.

 

Let me connect the dots and tell a story

The freckly grin  
On the face of a young boy  
Childish joy shining from each sun-kissed spot  
The freckles will fade only to return  
But the innocence can never be so lucky

Let me connect the dots and tell a story

The tears spattering the man's face  
One shed for each tragedy  
As the dam to secret rivers is pounded  
With passing years  
And the tears curl past a forced smile

Let me connect the dots and tell a story

The stars are falling  
Reflected in his lowered gaze  
His eyes older than his years  
But he still finds the courage to dream  
If only in secret whispers to the stars

Let me connect the dots  
the freckles  
the tears  
the stars  
And tell a story  
Such a short, sweet story  
And the longest and bitterest anyone can bare:

The story of life


	10. Words and Music

Words and Music  
by Anonymous

 

Words and music and I love you all over again.

It was crisp transitions, fluttering word choices, typed enunciation that left a sharp feeling on my tongue, gasping for more. I fell for your words before I fell for you. They betrayed your intelligence, your skill, you knack for the keyboard and pension for the pen. You inspired me to strive harder, impress you, make known that I, too, could write buzzing into ears and a fuzzy feeling into the heart. You were my idol before you were my friend, or anything past.

I asked you how you did it.

Music, you said. It was all a matter of filling your ears with the right music, your head with the right sounds, to write such a pulsing tune onto paper. You showed me music as I had never known it, and I fell for your rhythms before I fell for you.

Music fills my ears as I type this.

There is a thumping beat, too akin to my heart, too familiar, and a thrumming I have felt in my veins for far longer than I have admitted. There are lyrics swimming in my head that are desperate pleas for attention I do not desire. For what if you knew? What if you could see how I have turned you into words and music, read yourself in every line and hear yourself in every note?

I write for something I will never achieve, call for something that will never hear me, and all the while muffle myself to ensure that that never changes.

Words and music and I’m falling too fast, too far, not bothering to save myself.

Words and music and I love you all over again.


	11. Dumped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> APOLOGY - I kept forgetting to update??? Uuuuuuuuuuuugh I'm really sorry. Also: I am three fourths of the way done with the next chapter of Your Affectionate Laurens. You're finally gonna get to meet Martha Manning.

Dumped  
By David H.

 

It was dark. It was cold. There was no one around. It was all incredibly cliché, if only in setting and not in plot. She looked around and decided to rethink the situation; start from the beginning.

It was dark. That did tend to happen at night, she noted. The streetlight around the corner had long since given up flashing and had resigned itself to death. Not that it would have made much of a difference, anyway. She stood in an alley nestled behind a restaurant. It was Italian, if she remembered correctly. She didn’t care. She hadn’t really come for the food. She glanced upwards. Light, however absent in this little corner of the city, had still managed to pollute the sky enough that no stars were visible. The only thing illuminating her surroundings was the faint glow of a cell phone. It was cheap, a flip-phone bought at a local convenience store, likely for the sole reasons that it was disposable and that no one knew its number. Then again, that made sense. It was, after all, his phone. A thin, humorless smile flicked across her lips. Just like him, to want that kind of phone. It fit his nature. She shook her head. She needed to stop thinking about him right now.

It was cold. She hadn’t really noticed before, but now she was shivering. Shivering from the temperature, she wondered, or the way her evening had gone? Has to be the cold, she decided, tugging at a stain on her blouse. She hadn’t come dressed for the weather. She had come dressed for work. But one thing led to another, and there he was, and they had ended up outside, and – she stopped herself, shoving her jumbled thoughts to the side. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be speaking to him again. Her body betrayed her with another shiver. Shouldn’t she be used to it by now? Just another man, nothing to get hung up over. Not a particularly nice man, either. She was glad he was gone. Of course she was. She repeated that to herself a couple times, hoping the repetition would make it true. It wasn’t a lie, really. She was glad he was gone. Sort of gone, anyway. The cold and distant sort of gone.

There was no one around. Well, almost no one. But it was easier if she pretended he was really gone. It was easier if she pretended he wasn’t right there, balanced against the wall and staring blankly ahead of him. His once-pressed suit was now rumpled, his once-slick hair messy, all evidence of their actions that evening. She was pretty sure she was supposed to feel good after all that, or at least not as shaken as she did now. Usually this felt significantly better. She had given up feeling shame after the first couple of times it had happened; after all, the men never told anyone. She reached for his phone without bothering to ask permission. It wasn’t like he was going to answer her. She punched in a number and let it ring out.

“It’s done,” she muttered after the tone. “Send your crew to clean up the mess.”

The corpse beside her slid to the ground.


	12. Of Breezes (and fairies)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poems from this collection are often referenced in Your Affection Laurens (also featured in King's High School). This piece, in particular, is inspired by some plot elements of the story up to chapter 12.

Of Breezes (and fairies)  
by Francis K.

 

We met in the way that breezes do  
By chance  
and turn  
and little  
  whispered  
    words  
And like breezes do  
We bounced along  
quiet  
And the grass forgot us as we went along  
  (and the fairies in the meadow  
  dance to all that isn’t yet  
  we may see no fangs and fiddles  
  but the fair folk don’t forget)  
And then  
Like breezes do  
  we grew  
And the grass may have forgotten us  
But I began to forget the grass  
And all that mattered was the rush of wind  
  we were wind now, I think  
  no longer mere breeze  
like swooping script, crossed t’s  
that spelled out  
  Something like smiles  
    (do not beckon the good neighbors  
    leave your milk and walk away  
    if they know your name, they’ll own you  
    and you’ll never leave the fey)  
Oh, would that breezes could stay breezes!  
And that you  
  a storm  
  a tempest  
  a force  
had not stirred up old winds  
I had dreamed of spinning leaves and stories  
into circles  
  and dreams  
    to whisk away in  
  before I learned not to rustle the grass  
But you, you!  
You were the dreams long since stolen  
and hidden in bright eyes  
  and little whispers  
    and fondness  
      (there is something like a banshee  
      it is howling in my ear  
      but my screaming sounds like laughter  
      for the fey, the fey are here)  
I had time to think  
When the fairies stole my mind  
and left me to sit  
  in silence and insanity  
    and smiles  
And I had time to fall  
  But isn’t falling just like flying?  
  Just until you hit the ground  
I had time to muster courage  
  and fold it into wings  
    and tell myself I could soar  
      before  
        I  
          fell

 

            (you may walk between the shadows  
            And beware the green eyes’ hue  
            but you’ll fly away like breezes  
            when the fair folk come for you)

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is interested, you can send me a piece to be featured in Mr. Cowper's Literary Magazine by contacting me at sketch-rambles.tumblr.com/
> 
> Pieces can be "written by" one of the Lit Mag crew (listed in the tags) or by another character in the other works in King's High School, posted anonymously, or I can credit you. Your choice!
> 
> You can also just contact me to yell with me about the Revolutionary War.


End file.
